


Pantene® Beautiful Lengths

by freshwoods



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Barber Steve, Bucky Barnes's Hair, Flirting, Fluff, M/M, T'challa is a good friend, barber shop, so much blushing honestly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-06-27 09:22:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15682551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freshwoods/pseuds/freshwoods
Summary: It was a haircut. Just a haircut. No big deal. Inhaling deeply, Bucky dialed the number. He didn’t quite expect it when a deep, soothing voice answered on the other end of the line. Bucky felt a little unprepared, but the man on the other line spoke softly, asking Bucky all the questions Bucky assumed was normal practice at these kinds of places. Bucky realized he must’ve been the receptionist, used to handling customers. And, apparently, he was damn good at his job because Bucky sure felt handled.





	Pantene® Beautiful Lengths

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure how barber shops actually work but I worked in a salon for a while so I filled in the gaps lol.
> 
> Any and all mistakes are mine.
> 
> Thanks to Cin for the awesome prompt!
> 
> Also please consider donating your hair to various wig-making organizations for children and adults, such as wigs for kids, children with hair loss, and pantene beautiful lengths!

Bucky holds the referral card in his hand. He’s not sure why he hesitates, since he’d given in to his best friend, T’Challa’s, strong-arming of him into a haircut the day before, with a promise that he would indeed call and set something up this weekend. It was a haircut. Just a haircut. No big deal. Inhaling deeply, Bucky dialed the number. He didn’t quite expect it when a deep, soothing voice answered on the other end of the line. Bucky felt a little unprepared, but the man on the other line spoke softly, asking Bucky all the questions Bucky assumed was normal practice at these kinds of places. The last time he’d had his hair cut in an actual shop was when his mother had made him go to the local barber before his college graduation—everything else since then had been Bucky cutting it himself.

Which probably explained the fluttering of nerves he felt in his stomach after he hung up. It was totally not the lingering timbre of the man’s voice, or the fact that there was a cancellation so Bucky apparently had an appointment with some guy named Steve in a little over an hour. Fleetingly, he’s glad they had an opening today otherwise Bucky's sure he would chicken out. He wonders at how he even got his brain working enough to ask some of his questions before he hung up, the person on the other end of the line assuring him that they would indeed take good care of him, and yes a wash was included, and no they would not charge more for a style, and yes there was a policy if he didn’t like the cut. The man had been so patient, and Bucky realized he must’ve been the receptionist, used to handling customers. And, apparently, he was damn good at his job because Bucky sure felt handled.

The scheduled time rolls around faster than Bucky anticipates and he pulls into the parking lot of a swanky building. It looked exactly like the type of place T’Challa would frequent. The sign above the door matches the same fancy-sounding name as the card in his pocket, and Bucky quirks a smile as he walks in, wondering how T’Challa found this place. The bell tinkles, and Bucky looks around, noting the various stations and people sitting or standing at them. He faintly wonders who Steve is, but then his eyes land on the front desk. There’s a tall guy behind the desk, with long blond hair, tied half-up, half-down, clicking away at the computer. Bucky walks up and waits for the man to look at him.

The man’s cool blue eyes finally notice him. “Hello, do you have an appointment today, Sir?”

Bucky falters, just a little, because that is definitely not the voice of the guy who he talked to earlier. He knows sometimes phone receivers alter voices, but not this much—not enough to drop an apparent accent of some kind. “Uh. Yeah. With…Steve?”

The man’s eyes light up and he gives Bucky a small smile. “Ah, yes. Bucky, right? I hear you’ll be donating some hair today?” The man reaches for something—a clipboard with a form attached. “Would you mind filling this out for us? It’s a form for the donation.” Bucky reaches out for it slowly as the receptionist hands him a pen. “You can take a seat over there and I’ll collect it from you when you’re done. My name is Thor, if you need anything.”

Bucky nods at Thor, turning around to find the aforementioned waiting area. There’s a nice padded bench with some throw pillows, and a few comfy looking chairs. He opts for a chair, setting the clipboard on his knee to begin filling it out. His hair falls a little into his face and he hastily pushes it back, wishing he would’ve just kept it in the hairband that’s become his recent staple. In this place, he’s highly aware he looks every bit a mountain man—as his sister likes to call him. It comes with being an agriculturalist, he supposes.  

He fills out the form with little fuss. Thor comes over after a minute or so to take the clipboard and ask if he would like anything to drink, to which Bucky declines and is told Steve’s just finishing up and would be with him shortly. Bucky always manages to forget how much waiting is involved in places like these. His leg starts bouncing of its own accord, and his eyes drift over the room, taking in the muted, calming colors and designs, the shelves full of products stacked against the walls. There’s a hallway on the other side of the open room and Bucky faintly wonders where it goes.

 

Minutes pass and Bucky begins to question if he’d be able to sneak out the door or not, but he’d already given them all of his information. Plus, Thor said Steve shouldn’t be too long. So, he’s not really expecting it when a man comes up on his side, holding the clipboard with the form Bucky had filled out. Bucky only has a moment to take him in—tall, muscular, dirty blond hair with soft lighter blond highlights, swooped back to flip out a bit near his neck, a little piece loose and framing his face, and a nicely styled and trimmed beard that looked softer than any beard had the right to. He had on a blue Henley, sleeves rolled up, and a black apron with the logo of the shop on it. “Hi, you must be Bucky.” The man says it without hesitation, a smile pulling at his lips as he stares down at Bucky. And Bucky, he recognizes that voice. It’s the same soothing timbre as the guy he talked to on the phone. All Bucky can do is nod, looking up at him. “I’m Steve.” Steve cocks his head; the little piece of hair fallen into his face sways a little with the motion. “Why don’t we head over to my station and you can tell me what you want.”

Steve turns his back, starting to walk away, and Bucky gets a great view of his back—shirt tight enough to show off muscles that make Bucky’s mouth a little dry, with dark jeans that fit the other man  _ very _ well.

And all Bucky can think as he follows the man is  _ You. _

They start out simple, Steve putting a cape on him, again with the logo on it, before brushing out Bucky’s hair. Bucky tries not to shiver when Steve’s fingers start to thread through it, but he’s not sure he succeeds. They talk length, and Steve tells Bucky the minimum requirement for a donation is eight inches, but he could probably get away with doing nine. Bucky  _ really _ tries to not let his mind think about inches when he’s looking at the barber, because he knows it’s going to be a recipe for disaster. He’s just going to cut Bucky’s hair. He’s a professional. Jesus Christ.

Somehow, Steve convinces Bucky of an amount to cut and a style he thinks would suit him, and even talks Bucky into a beard trim—but, honestly, at this point Bucky’s pretty sure Steve could talk him into buying half the services and products they offer just as long as Steve keeps crooning at him.

Steve’s fingers leave his hair, elastic band tying his hair into a ponytail, and then shears appear in Steve’s hand and Bucky swallows hard at his reflection in the mirror in front of him. Steve looks cool, collected, and the snip-snip of the shears seems to echo in Bucky’s ears with finality. Steve shows Bucky the ponytail with another smile and sets it down in front of Bucky on the station. Bucky lets out a breath. This was what he came for. He needed his hair to no longer be a security blanket for him, even if he did love his long locks. It was hair, it would grow back. He tries to reassure himself of these things as he looks again into the mirror, his freshly-chopped hair falling into disarray in a very unflattering way.

Oh god, this was a mistake, wasn’t it?

Steve, maybe sensing the turmoil in Bucky, or seeing the wide-eyed expression on his face, asks Bucky to walk with him to the bowls for his complimentary wash. Bucky does so on autopilot, sitting down and letting Steve adjust the back of his cape as the chair reclined, his neck resting against the cool ceramic of the bowl. Bucky hears the sound of water, and Steve smiles reassuringly down at him before the spray of the water hits his hair in little circles, gently wetting it. It’s actually quite nice. Bucky can’t really remember the last time he’d had his hair washed by someone else and thinks he might want to have it done more often. Especially if Steve is the one doing it.

Bucky lets his eyes fall shut when he feels the smooth glide of Steve’s fingers run through his hair. The sharp scent of something minty hits his nose right as Steve’s fingers start to massage at his scalp. Bucky relaxes, neck lolling as Steve moves his head this way and that, fingers lightly digging in at his temples, at the back of his neck. He has nice, strong hands, and steady fingers that work magic. When the shampoo is rinsed from his hair some minutes later, the last thing he expects is for more product to be worked through his hair. He thinks it might be conditioner, but Bucky doesn’t use that too often, so he’s not entirely sure. It smells different, but pleasant. This one doesn’t make his scalp tingle like the shampoo had, but Steve’s fingers stroking through his strands sure is nice. Bucky thinks he might’ve told Steve so, and when he opens his eyes, there’s a slight flush on Steve’s cheeks above him, that same stubborn piece of hair falling in his eyes as he tries not to make eye-contact with Bucky.

By the time Steve tilts the chair back up and uses a soft towel to drain his hair of excess water, Bucky feels more relaxed than he has in a long while—the anxiety about his hair from earlier goes down the drain with the sudsy water.

Once Bucky’s back in Steve’s chair, Steve’s eyes meet Bucky’s as the other man tells him, “No peeking.” Steve follows his words with an honest-to-god wink before he turns Bucky away from the mirror. Steve disappears back behind Bucky and Bucky has to make a conscious effort to breathe.

The sheers start snipping again, interspersed with the drag of a comb through his hair. It’s an endless loop of cut, comb, cut, comb, and Bucky gets lost to it easily. He stares at a man two stations down and the client in his seat. He can’t hear their conversation over the buzz of voices and music and the occasional blow dryer. Bucky’s not used to sitting in so much silence with another person, and the uncomfortableness begins to grate on him, so he opens his mouth to speak.

“So,” Bucky begins, the blow dryer making its reappearance somewhere, “that was you I talked to on the phone, right?”

Steve’s hands in his hair stop for a moment but don’t falter. “Yeah. It was early and Thor—our receptionist—was busy doing some paperwork, so I thought I’d help him out.”

Snip-snip.

 

Bucky makes a noncommittal sound. “Thanks for being so patient with me, by the way. I was kinda nervous about all this.”

 

Bucky hears a laugh from behind as Steve’s hands drop from his hair. Bucky cranes his head to glance back at the other man. “Yeah, I noticed that a little bit.”

 

Bucky frowns as Steve once again walks around, cutting the hair in front. “What gave it away?”

 

Steve grins, combing through Bucky’s hair with a laser focus. “You asked a lot of questions on the phone. Most people don’t.” Steve shrugs, softening his words with a smile. “Plus you looked like you might run right out of the shop when Thor pointed you out to me.”

 

“Oh.” Bucky cleared his throat, ignoring the blush he feels on his face. “Yeah, I, uh. Haven’t had a real haircut in a while.”

 

Steve stops altogether now, looking him in the eye as he smiles. “Well I’m glad you’ve allowed me the honor.” Steve reaches out to comb Bucky’s hair this way and that, before cutting a little bit again. “It’s a nice thing you’re doing, donating your hair. A lot of guys don’t think about doing it.”

 

Bucky shrugs as gently as he can, so as to not dislodge Steve’s hands. “I needed a change, and it helps someone else out. Win-win in my book.”

 

Steve’s smile fades to something smaller, more private, as he sets his shears down. “That’s a nice way to look at things.” The other man takes a step back, observing Bucky in his entirety. He gives Bucky an appreciative look, then quickly glances away when their eyes meet. Steve reaches for thinning shears next, texturizing Bucky’s hair as they chat back and forth for a bit longer about the donation process and make small talk—now that Steve’s started talking to Bucky, he takes to it with gusto. Bucky learns Steve’s been working here for nine years, and watches a blush color his cheeks at the impressed stare Bucky gives him. 

 

Steve clears his throat, color still on his cheeks as he reaches out to fluff Bucky’s hair. “Alright, so how about your beard?” Steve’s hand extends again toward Bucky’s face, but the other man catches himself before he touches. “Feel like a change with that as well?”

 

“Sure,” Bucky makes eye contact. “I trust you. To, uh, not make me look completely hideous.”

 

Steve lets out a chuckle. “Bucky, I doubt anyone could do anything to make you look hideous.”

 

Bucky’s mouth drops open a little bit, brain frantically trying to think of something—anything—to say, when a chuckle sounds somewhere behind them. Bucky cranes his neck to see a dark-skinned man giving them a gap-toothed smile. “Especially not with a jawline like that, right Steve?”

 

Steve turns to look at the man, too, another flush coloring his face as the man walks over—saunters, more like. “Bucky, this is the owner, Sam Wilson.” Steve turns to the other man. “I was just debating what to do with his beard.”

 

Sam hums, assessing Bucky with a razor-sharp focus. “It is a nice jawline. And those light eyes and dark hair: killer combo. The beard makes you look broody. I like it.”

 

“Thin and trim?” Steve questions. 

 

Sam nods, then shoots a grin at Steve. “You know what to do.” Sam looks back to Bucky, giving him a reassuring smile as he pats Steve on the shoulder. “You’re in good hands, Man. Steve is one of our top stylists. He’ll take good care of you.” Steve looks a little sheepish at the praise, but as Sam leaves the station, Bucky can’t help but think it’s endearing. 

 

Steve brings out the clippers next, working Bucky’s beard into what he hopes is a nice style and length. It’s a bit intense, having Steve stooped down to eye-level in front of him, the other man's eyes so focused on him. Steve puts a gentle finger under Bucky’s chin and adds just enough pressure until Bucky looks up at the ceiling. In front of him, Steve moves closer, leaning in so that Bucky can practically feel the flutter of Steve’s breath on his throat. He trims a clean line, getting rid of the excess growth down Bucky’s neck before he runs his hands through Bucky’s beard with some kind of oil. Then Steve steps back, Bucky putting his head back down as Steve sets down the clippers to reach for a jar of some kind of product. Working a small dab into his hands, the other man once again circles behind the chair, working the product thoroughly through Bucky’s hair. To Bucky’s surprise, his hair is already dry—a perk he’s long forgotten about when having short hair. Steve brings out a big puffy brush with a wooden knob at the end and starts moving it over Bucky’s throat and the back of his neck. It tickles, just a little, and then Steve puts it down, reaching out to tweak at Bucky’s hair until he makes a satisfied sound low in his throat that does  _ things _ to Bucky. 

 

“Alright, Bucky,” Steve comes to the side, looking down at Bucky, “you ready?”

 

“Why not.” Bucky tries to play it cool with a shrug, but a smile quirks on Steve’s lips that tells Bucky he probably looks anything but cool. 

 

And then Steve unsnaps the cape and spins the chair around, and Bucky finally gets a good view of his reflection.

 

And damn.  _ Damn _ . He looks good. His hair seems soft in its gently-tousled style. He can see his ears. He swears he’d almost forgotten what they look like. And his beard; that appears just as soft and shorter, tighter, the lines cleaner.

 

He looks like a whole new person; a new and improved version of himself. Bucky can’t help but reach up and feel his beard, to run a hand through his hair. 

 

“Wow. Steve. This is...wow.” Bucky leans closer to the mirror, the blue of his eyes popping somehow with the new look. His eyes find Steve’s then, in the reflection. The other man smiles at him, arms gently crossed over his chest. He beams a little with pride, and Bucky definitely gets why this guy is one of the best workers here.

 

“I’m glad you like it.” He glances away then, toward the front desk, with a nod at something Bucky can’t see. When he looks back at Bucky, his smile has faded a little. “If you want to maintain the short hair, I’d say to come back in about three weeks. If not, then about six, to at least trim up the ends.” Steve motions Bucky up from the chair, and Bucky follows, walking up with Steve to the front desk.

 

Bucky bites his lip, knowing he’ll probably be back in three weeks just to be able to see Steve sooner. Unless...Bucky wonders if Steve would give him his number if Bucky asked. There had been a vibe, right? Or was Steve like that with all his clients?

 

“Well,” Steve turns back to Bucky when they’re almost to the desk. “It was really nice to meet you, Bucky. I hope I’ll see you again soon.” Then Steve seems to hesitate for a moment, looking at Bucky with an unreadable expression before he finally motions to Thor. “Thor can help you set up your next appointment, alright?” And then Steve walks away, over to the waiting area, where he greets his next client, like Bucky’s world isn’t upending because  _ it’s over already _ and Bucky’s just another client for Steve and  _ he should know better _ .

 

Thor smiles at him, energetic and broad, and does indeed help Bucky set up his next appointment. His next two, in fact. He’s told he’ll get a certification in the mail for his donation once the charity they use receives it, and Bucky leaves, feeling a little dazed.

 

The next week passes in a blur for Bucky. He’s busy harvesting during the week, so that when Bucky takes his stock to the local farmer’s market the following weekend, his stand is full to bursting with fresh produce—sweet corn, tomatoes, zucchini, eggplant, yams, assorted peppers, and cucumbers. He sets up early, and after just a couple hours, his stock is more than halfway gone. 

 

He’s talking to a particularly enthusiastic customer about what kind of irrigation he uses, when he hears a throat clear behind him. Bucky excuses himself, the customer having already paid well before their questions started, and turns around, smile on his face.

 

...And sees Steve.

 

Steve blinks at him for a moment, some zucchini and cucumbers perched in his arms. “Bucky?”

 

Bucky, feeling mildly proud that he’d at least attempted to style his hair this morning, grins back, shoving his hands into his jeans’ pockets. “Hey, Steve. Um. Finding everything okay?”

 

Steve looks down at the vegetables in his arms. “Oh, uh, yeah. Is this—is this your stand?” 

 

Bucky reaches for a bag for Steve just to have something to do with his hands. “Ah. Sure is.” He sets the bag down on the table near him. “We set up here every weekend.” From the corner of his eye, Bucky takes stock of Steve. His hair’s a little messy today, which warms Bucky for some reason. He wonders if he’d somehow missed Steve coming here before. Bucky surreptitiously tries to study Steve as he reaches for the produce Steve offers, counting up the prices as he moves them into the bag for Steve before the other man pays.

 

“I haven’t seen you here before…” Bucky trails off, not sure where he’s going with that, but Steve seems to pick it up anyway.

 

Bucky watches as Steve reaches up to run a hand through his hair. “Yeah, this is my first time here.” He seems almost embarrassed by that and Bucky levels him a small smile as he continues. “One of Sam’s clients was in a couple days ago and he mentioned he had a friend who had a produce stand down here.”

 

Bucky lets out a small laugh, shaking his head when Steve looks a little startled at him. “Was his name T’Challa?”

 

Steve blinks once again. “Yeah—Wait, are you the guy he was talking about?”

 

Bucky motions to the vegetables in bins around him in answer. “T’Challa’s an ass sometimes, but he’s a decent best friend. He’s actually the one who referred me to your shop.” Bucky cocks his head. “I’ve been meaning to thank him for that, actually.” Bucky shakes his head, mumbling to himself about how he’s going to have a talk with T’Challa on the art of subtlety. 

 

Steve flushes. He opens his mouth to say something when an older couple walks up. Bucky gives him an apologetic look as he rushes to help them, making it as quick as he can.

 

“Sorry about that,” Bucky says after the couple walks away.

 

Shaking his head, Steve reaches out for his forgotten bag. “No, I’m sorry. I really should let you get back to work.” 

 

But he doesn’t move, just gives Bucky a look, and Bucky returns it, a smile tugging at his lips. “You really don’t have to. I promise...unless you have somewhere pressing to go.”

 

Bucky definitely detects a pink tint to Steve’s cheeks at that. “Bucky. You’re working.”

 

But Bucky just shrugs. “I’ve already sold my quota for today. Besides, if you walk away again, I won’t have a chance to ask you out. And I really,  _ really _ want to ask you out.”

 

Steve finally lets go of his paper bag, gaze snapping up to Bucky’s. “You do?”

 

Bucky full-on grins now, leaning over the table toward Steve. “Honestly? I’ve kinda wanted to since you helped me on the phone. Anyone ever tell you you have a nice voice, Steve?”

 

Steve bites his lip, looking a little bashful. “Uh, no. You’re definitely the first.”

 

Bucky’s grin turns a little wicked. “What about ‘nice hands?’” 

 

At that, Steve lets out a sharp, loud laugh, then brings his hands up to hide his face for a moment. “Unfortunately, yes.” He drops his hands and meets Bucky’s eyes. “But you can keep telling me what you like about me, if you want. It’s great for my ego.”

 

It’s Bucky’s turn to bite his lip, stifling a laugh. “Go on a date with me and maybe I will.”

  
Later—much, much later, after Steve and Bucky’s date the following week, when Steve kisses Bucky, soft and sweet, on his doorstep—Bucky thinks now he really  _ does _ have to thank T’Challa.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are accepted and much appreciated!
> 
> Follow me on [ tumblr](https://freshwoods.tumblr.com/)!


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